


Five Things That Never Happened #2: A Slip in Ivo's Resolution

by baranduin



Series: No Night Is Too Long [21]
Category: No Night is Too Long (2002)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baranduin/pseuds/baranduin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More movie-verse in that it is using a little movie dialogue. What if Ivo stayed that night?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Never Happened #2: A Slip in Ivo's Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fanfic100 community challenge #097--Writer's Choice.

_"You know, you're still quite cute ... but you're a lethal little bastard."_

I was almost clear of him, two steps more and a closed door would have finished the affair, all the books finally balanced. I'd done what I'd wanted to do, said what I'd needed to say. I remained calm, kind even, though that was not something I planned. But not being kind would have been akin to kicking a bedraggled dog who'd bitten you when he'd been a puppy and was heedless of his new, sharp teeth. In his turn, he was almost pathetic in his eagerness to please, that is, once he'd gotten over his shock at seeing me alive and well.

Ridiculous, isn't it, to speak calmly of such things? You might think we'd been living inside one of those hysterically overwrought American soap operas that overweight housewives are so fond of.

But it had all happened and there I was again with him, and through my own will. After all, it was I who made the journey to N. to see him (not that I told him that) rather than the other way round. Which I suppose is only logical, given that until he saw me standing before him and speaking to him in simple words, he'd believed he was a murderer who'd gotten away with it. Perhaps I shouldn't say he'd believed he'd gotten away with it because, after spending ten minutes with him, I knew that his guilt would have consumed his life. No physical gaol necessary. He'd built a far more rigorous one for himself and I realized that, even as we made small talk which evolved into something more honest until he said something about Isabel and I made my effort at leaving.

Oh, it's not going to last, we both know that; it was just a good-bye fuck. And of course there was the practical nature of it. He was right, it was pissing down rain last night.

But the thing is, it was so unbelievably good that I can still feel it even now that I am on my way back to P., en route to my rest of my life. God help me, but the prospect stretches out before me flat and straight and nearly as featureless as the Suffolk road I'm driving on alone. So completely different than the twists and turns of Tim's peculiar psyche.

* * *

I stood for a moment at the open door, listening to the rain pouring down outside, feeling a little of it blowing cold against my face until I shut the door softly and with such care that I barely heard it click. Then I turned around and looked at Tim; he was round-eyed, his arms hugging his chest. "You're right," I said. "I will take you up on it; that is, if the room's still on offer."

He nodded hard at me. "Yes, of course. I want you to stay." He was speaking in that odd cadence he used when unnerved—quick, words slurred together, erratic rhythm.

But then, it was an odd evening.

We went back into the lounge. "No champagne?" I asked after we sat down in tatty but comfortable armchairs and stared at each other for several minutes in silence.

Tim smiled, a jerk of upturned mouth, and then it was gone again. "I don't really drink any more."

"My goodness, you are reformed." I settled back in my chair and crossed my legs.

Tim leaned toward me as if, by doing so, he could impress upon me the utter earnestness of his every word and action. "Not really. You see, I stopped needing it once I got back from Alaska."

"Well, that's not very flattering. But I suppose we're all honesty now."

He flushed and his eyes got watery again. I began to feel some actual sympathy for him; it was refreshing. "I'm sorry, Ivo. I didn't mean anything, really."

"Yes, you do. It's alright. I told you before that I've come to peace over our situation and I do mean it." I leaned forward and touched his hand; it was gripping his knee hard, clenched. His skin was warm though I only grazed him because he jerked back and then stood up.

"Any way, I can't afford to."

"What?"

"Drinking ... can't afford more than a beer every now and then," he said, standing over me with his arms hugging his chest again. Well, it was quite cold. I don't suppose he can afford to heat the place very well, which was fortunate for me. "I don't mind really. It feels right."

He was all to pieces. It came to me then in clear sight. I'd been observing him so closely but there was something in the way he said "It feels right..." that made it all come clear to me. He was all in pieces and was actually groping toward putting himself back together again; or maybe it was more that he was trying to put himself together for the first time.

I stood up then; I knew I had to get away. "It's late," I said. "This is all very nice, but ... you mentioned a room?"

He nodded and led me upstairs and showed me into a small room that had peeling wallpaper and smelled musty, as if it wasn't used very often, which of course it wasn't.

* * *

I don't suppose I really thought I'd keep away from him, but for some reason I needed a respite from being with him, not very long, just an hour or so, a time to gather my thoughts or perhaps decompress from the tension and excitement.

It was really rather stupid of me to have expected I wouldn't feel anything for him, whatever the feelings might be—anger, pity, hatred, disgust, lust. Lust. That's what got us into the entire mess, wasn't it? First there was sheer, unmitigated, unbridled lust; after that, it had been too late for me. That won't happen again, and my taking a small break from him was my insurance.

So I undressed and slipped into the single bed, cold sheets against my skin, and then I lay there for an hour or so. I smoked a cigarette in the dark and listened to the house noises. I could hear him go downstairs and potter about for a bit, then listened to his footsteps coming back up the stairs. He paused outside my room; I could imagine him standing there with his forehead leaning against the closed door, but he didn't knock and eventually his footsteps receded as he went to his own room. He was very quiet after he shut his door and I didn't hear anything after that.

When I went to him, perhaps an hour later, I didn't knock and I didn't turn on the light. I don't know if he expected me or not, but when I approached his bed, I could see him lying there awake. His open eyes shone in the sliver of moonlight slanting across the bed. After a minute, he pulled back the covers and held out his hand to me. He whispered, "Thank you." I do not believe we said one word to each other the rest of the night (I know I didn't say anything), though at one point he might have said, "I love you ..." very softly. Then again, it was probably my imagination; if it wasn't, it should have been.

* * *

We did something very odd. I don't know why we never did that before; perhaps it might have been all different if we had, if _I_ had. It was really very simple. I made love to Tim very gently all through the night.

I could say that we didn't have much choice given the narrowness and fragility of the creaky old bed. But the fact is that it never occurred to me to be otherwise with him. How different from the last time we'd had sex, from almost all the times we'd had sex.

_Ivo ... please ..._

That's what flashed through my head as I lay down with him, that last time, that awful time when I told myself that he really wanted it, his obvious distress and pain obliterated in my own need to penetrate and claim him again.

We did not speak, but my hearing was acute as we made love. It was almost as though by not speaking, all my other senses expanded though I was most alive to hearing at first. I was alert to every intake of breath that he made, every little moan and gasp, and I saw to it that there were many.

His body was thinner; that was the first thing I noticed after we pulled off our clothes and started to explore each other. (That was different too, exploring him instead of devouring him with a quick, hard fuck. Why hadn't I done more of that before?) Before, he'd been slim. Now, he is downright skinny and I could have counted his ribs as I rubbed my face back and forth against his torso, against his smooth skin, his concave belly twitching under my lips.

_Well, he did say he's stopped drinking so much._

His cock was still as plump as ever. I can still feel the groan he let out when I closed my mouth over its slick head and sucked. Too bad I didn't ask him if Isabel had done that for him, whether she had done it the way he liked it. I suppose I've missed my chance forever now.

Of course that didn't enter my mind at the moment, especially not when I was so concerned with other things and so many hours of the night remained open to us before the dawn would turn us into pumpkins or some such boring thing.

* * *

It's come to me now as I'm driving home in the afternoon sunlight—the reason I was so slow and careful and gentle with him, and he with me. Isn't that what you do when you're saying goodbye, even when the relationship has been horribly painful and there is no possible solution other than permanent separation and silence? Even then, a final truce can be called and courtesies exchanged while the instruments of surrender are signed. You shake hands with your enemy, so to speak.

I shall never see Tim again. How very strange. I thought I'd feel more, but I don't. Actually, I feel absolutely numb.


End file.
